This time, there's no obnoxiously loud alarm ready to shock them out of the sleep. Victor's phone was abandoned along with his coat in the entryway, he hadn't bothered with it since. He didn't want to, either, didn't want to look at all the missed calls from Yakov, messages telling him he was off schedule, needed to get back to St. Petersburg, that he was wasting his time on a flight of fancy, that Victor Nikiforov had another half season to so he could win his fifth consecutive world medal. He doesn't want to hear any of it, not right now, while he has Yuuri at the center of his orbit. Then there would be the rumors, caused by the photo, but Victor would only mind those so much as they were a bother to Yuuri.

So, he sleeps steady through the night, arms slung limp over Yuuri, occasionally adjusting, pulling him closer. It's pure peace, nothing notifying him otherwise, just the patter of rain on the windows as the storm wanes away to a bright morning. He's awake before Yuuri, but doesn't want to move. He just brushes his fingers through his boyfriend's bangs, admiring him through sleepy, lidded gaze.